


An Hour's Haunt, A Forever Gap

by WonderAss



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Porn, Character Study, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Old Flames, One Night Stands, Pet Names, Porn with Feelings, Rare Pairings, References to Canon, Smut, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-27 00:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: Two admirals on opposite ends of the incline. Twenty-two years serving a bloody history with an uncertain future. Aged helmets, cracked armor, too many things left unsaid...there's always a layer between them and, for just a few moments, they want to break through.





	An Hour's Haunt, A Forever Gap

"Good to know you haven't entirely let yourself go."

He thinks he could understand Han more, if he'd done _this_ more. Truly tasted the old quarian loss with tentative bites, little-by-little in sterilized rooms and bold moments in close quarters, whetting his appetite for bigger and better until only the homeworld could possibly satisfy his hunger. This is precisely why he kept visits like these to a minimum. Avoiding it when he could and postponing it when he couldn't. His work as the Civilian Fleet's admiral was his life, because _anything_ less -- or worse, anything _more_ \-- could warp his perspective and see him chasing delusion all the way down to his demise.

It's just one of many reasons why Zaal'Koris doesn't bother being coy as he sheds his armor. He understands why others do it, of course. It's just...entertaining something romantic would just feed the creature he's been trying so very hard to starve. It's been so long since he's linked his suit environment with another, even _been_ with another, and besides. It was inappropriate, considering all that's still layered between them. As he unbuckles the straps on his helmet he wonders if his body remembers the last time he'd curried Han'Gerrel's favor. If the sickness could be held at bay by that old affection. The thought almost makes him laugh. A pleasant myth, nothing more.

His immune system would atrophy, after _so_ much time in-between now and then, but something familiar still curves into his back when the man's eyes, free from his mask, continue to sweep over him.

The helmet was often the first to go and Han'Gerrel Vas Neema was nothing if not old-fashioned. For better and for worse.

"...I suppose I _could_ comment on your hair or your scars." Zaal'Koris mutters back, far too late. The fact he'll be able to touch both very soon, with his _bare_ hands, no less, is turning his breath shallow. "You were always fond of close shaves."

"What is a proper escape without a little style?" The double-meaning is not lost. Han jerks his chin at him. "You keep yours longer. Reviving traditional styles to celebrate our return to the homeworld?" It _could_ be a responding tease. Zaal'Koris knows it's not. He wants it to be, truly, but pride and anger entered the clean room with him, and he won't suss out sweeter words.

"I haven't had time to trim it. Nothing more." Han could just tell him he _likes_ it, or missed it, instead of laying out such meager bait. "Do you want a history lesson or do you want to get this over with?"

What little warmth was in his voice flashes out of sight as abruptly as a meteoroid. Han's eyes grow hard.

"...Fine. Why don't _you_ take the lead, then, Vas Qwib-Qwib." He shrugs off the rest of his mesh to the floor and something in Zaal'Koris drops with it. "Do some goddamn work for once."

" _Some?_ " He should be feeling something shyer, down to bare skin in front of another after so, _so_ long, but all he feels is cold anger. "As if mediating the lives of over fifteen million civilians is a smooth flight!"

"It _is_ when you insist on running off to distant worlds that won't take us or the Council won't let us _have_! You've always kept your eyes on the wrong thing when what you actually need is-" Han starts, already at a breakneck pace, and-

" _Han!_ "

It bursts out of him, a name that suddenly holds a thousand pleas and a single question. Keelah, they could continue trading shots once they were back _out_ , couldn't they? Even the most advanced drive core in the galaxy needed to take pause. The man's sneer remains on his grizzled face, but he keeps his words holstered when they close the small gap and shed another of the many, many layers. They only have an hour, after all. Their twenty-two years could wait.

It's such an embarrassing moment of vulnerability, but it's in the room with them now. A crack in armor that couldn't be buffed out. These cracks had splintered throughout Zaal'Koris, _have been_ , but never where they could reach the Fleet. Strained from the sudden pressure they spread now, all throughout their quarantine, and inevitably they make their way into his voice to turn his anger into glass. He knows the man recognizes it for what it is. Everything is exposed now. Their suits don't even make a haphazard dome on the floor, splayed out instead away from each other in beige and green. An index and support finger, split from the same foundation and forever reaching toward opposite ends.

Han'Gerrel mutters a curse, one close enough to tickle his hair now, and Zaal'Koris helplessly gives in to the memories that flood the cold room when they finally, _finally_ , touch.

Two new admirals, the only distance between them the impartial gap of unfamiliarity and the necessary gap of Fleet-issued mesh. A gap filled with careful steps, side-by-side on the incline, as they eased into the responsibilities they were inducted into. A conversation about a new liveship construction had been their very first conversation. Zaal'Koris had made _sure_ of it, straight to business and keen on making the popular vote proud by giving back to them through his first order of command. Han'Gerrel, on the other hand, had shared a story. A war tale that began with a terrifying encounter and ended with a daring escape. An attempt at easing Zaal'Koris's stiff shoulders, he would find out later. The new admiral of the Civilian Fleet had received kind gestures from most parties at the time -- the then-lead researcher Yaama'Caan, in particular -- but this had been different.

...mainly because it had actually been sincere.

The Civilian Fleet was the largest, yet Zaal'Koris was met with the unpleasant surprise that his new role was also perceived by many as the _easiest_ on the Board. Not like the Heavy Fleet's noble cause defending the Flotilla from outside terrors or Special Projects constantly pushing their boundaries in hostile galaxies, no! The day-to-day quarrels that plagued the haggard quarian people were just that -- _quarrels_ \-- and he was certain from day one of his position he would have no choice but to become accustomed to isolation. Remaining a stalwart public figure for his people, never wavering where they could see. Standing tall and alone in Migrant matters, even as he stood side-by-side with his peers.

Han'Gerrel would proceed to fill this gap, with his good humor and fierce appreciation, and Zaal'Koris's gratitude had been as vast as the stars.

" _Nobody should have to see any of this, Zaal'Koris._ " Han'Gerrel had told him years back, in the long shadow between hull window and hallway. The meeting on the Neema had ended hours ago, but neither of them had been quite ready to leave. " _They're lucky to have you._ "

" _I will give them far more than just luck_." Zaal'Koris hadn't been ready for a compliment. He also hadn't been ready for the windowlight's glow to shift and reveal the soft laugh in Han'Gerrel's eyes.

" _That's exactly it._ "

These careful steps became bigger. Much less careful, eventually. Zaal'Koris couldn't help but feel empathy for the soldier that had seen too much, too early, then too _often_. Even Han'Gerrel's pilgrimage had been a lesson in war, a success story repeated with gusto to curious audiences and silently propped up on sleepless nights behind closed doors. Screaming himself awake multiple times per week didn't make for a popular conversation starter, he'd mentioned during one long night over drinks. They had been beyond basic conversation at that point.

Sympathy had been offered back with generous palms to the other dreaming of a peaceful future few else believed in. It was one Han recognized, maybe would have even _agreed_ with, if war hadn't filled in those gaps, too. Even then, his understanding had meant so much to the already exhausted admiral gifted the thankless task of managing millions of tiny problems, much less attempting a treaty over three hundred years in the making. Like open-market goods Zaal'Koris and Han'Gerrel traded sentiment in-between their duties. Encouraging comments in passing. Supportive e-mails they later confessed to hoarding. Keelah. Like an alien's favorite trinkets on a home planet, sentimental nonsense piled higher and higher and higher.

Empathy and sympathy. Layered between them not like a suit to protect from harm, but more like a blanket that grew softer and warmer when shared.

Sympathy...that froze over after the captain's anti-geth rhetoric went from an understandable fear to a bloodthirsty madness that would drench every last soul in self-righteous _red_. Empathy that blistered in his own mind like a rash when Han'Gerrel finally accepted Zaal'Koris's demands for better wasn't benign _misintention_ on behalf of artificial intelligence, but a true desire for their people's overdue redemption. E-mails that stopped coming, comments that grew more barbed with each public meeting, thinly-veiled insults never where anybody could hear that _still_ bred rumors in the far corners of ships.

Always about the admirals that started out so noble, and so hopeful, and had instead helped turn the Admiralty Board, and by extention the quarian people's _future_ , into a farce.

There are cracks in Han'Gerrel, too. They flicker around the aged soldier's eyes, like shifting grooves in sand, and deeper ones have settled firm around that mouth always keen on denouncing him. Han isn't as lean as he remembers. He's...warmer, though. New bumps announce themselves beneath the pads of his fingers as he learns about all that happened since they unofficially severed ties, enough to make something sharp cut straight through his chest and spark that blasted empathy he thought had long since been turned to dust. Zaal'Koris clutches him suddenly. Tightly. The man denounces him a bleeding heart, and doesn't pull away.

He has new scars, himself, and Han's sour words are nowhere to be found as his hands roam and stake their claim. Inch by tentative inch. He pets his chest, first. Glides his fingers up his neck and touches his hair, tangled from neglect and, with the way his heart speeds up to a patter, something he does, indeed, like. Every breath between them stutters. Every touch a slam on the throttle that sends them _both_ careening through once-familiar territory. It's too much after too long, too fast, _too desperate_ , and they have to slow down lest they crash and burn prematurely. They were deliberate men, for all that they veered apart, yet the impatience wears on them like a coming-of-age suit that hasn't been broken in.

"Where did you get this?" Han asks when one hand eventually finds the aftermath of a burn Zaal'Koris received five years ago, a twist of knots wrapping beneath his ribs like the tattoos so many aliens showed off, though far less beautiful. The man loved battle stories. It was his way of coping with trauma, always has been, and perhaps this could be just as much an opportunity to heal as relax. He _could_ share how he had barely survived the encounter. How, had he not held open the burning remains of the frigate door, the rest of his crew would have been stuck inside and doomed to one of the galaxy's cruelest deaths.

"...I thought you didn't want a history lesson." Zaal'Koris says instead, and Han scoffs under his breath.

There are leftover words between them. Decades' worth. Stretching longer with every second, both of them a living, breathing study in needless damnation. He feels every minute of this carefully tended gap when Han suddenly grips his hair and tugs him forward to bite his mouth, almost breaking the skin and making Zaal'Koris hiss in shock. The man is pressing warm and solid against him, layering Zaal'Koris between his broad chest and the smooth wall, and the cold plastic is growing warm with promise. The single bed in the far corner remains pristine and ignored.

The commander of the Heavy Fleet always kept _his_ promises, as sturdy as a dreadnought and about as dangerous, but he breaks one here. He touches _him_ first and makes Zaal'Koris keen like he's a bloody _youth_ again. The sound makes Han snort, a tickle to his skin he'll be loathe to remember, but his breath is coarse and lovely, a hum of pleasure thrumming low in his throat as he slips their bodies together as if they've always been a perfect fit. The years keep them just a little clumsy. The hurt keeps them from being honest. The ache blooming deep below guides him mercifully past the thoughts that would see him screeching to a halt and fleeing right back out the door.

Zaal'Koris ruts into the man's firm grip, his mind finally starting to blank from the pleasure and lift him beyond the hard day to a moment's peace. Revelations still itch in the back of his mind, though, threatening to break through and ruin the hour, and he shoves back this bitterness by focusing on a far worse detail: that Han still knows _exactly_ where to touch him, after all this time. An encouraging whimper escapes him, followed by a curse, and Han jerks him faster, dragging his hand up from the base to roll his thumb where he's starting to leak. Exactly what needs. He definitely curses now, of the more traditional type. A vehement mourning of it all.

"Why did it have to be like this?"

It's not the first time Zaal'Koris has asked, or even spoken this sentiment aloud. He thinks the first time it slipped free was when he was a child moving from bubble to suit, transitioning from one deceptive freedom to another, but the years have been long, the years have been _hard_ , and he's had more than enough opportunities to ask since then. The clean room isn't quite as cold now, not with their bodies turning slick in time with the pounding of their hearts, but he shivers a little, still, and Han presses closer around him in response. His particular brand of honesty, as it always does, lands side-by-side with regret.

"For the geth." He murmurs into his cheek as he reaches lower, then around, and makes Zaal'Koris shudder. "For the goddamn _geth_."

Han doesn't have much hair to grip, not with it sheared so close (a change that stood out immediately and he _refuses_ to ask about), so Zaal'Koris cups the back of his head and guides him to his mouth again with a firm push, to shut him up and stop the fighting _just this once_. Every time the man tries to pull back, air his soul out in hissing accusations, air out _all_ those stretching words shivering with the strain of their suspension, he's stopped halfway with another. Cut off with bites, with desperate presses, until finally _he_ surrenders. Just this once.

They kiss so roughly he can already taste tomorrow's ache. Faint clacks of teeth make the sterile room sing, sharp pants through their noses following suit as they refuse to break ranks and be outdone by the other. Neither of them bother to fashion their gasps, their hungry _whines_ , into something dignified. Something an admiral could lay claim to. They weren't admirals. Not here. Again in an hour, then for a few years, perhaps, if they would be any Fleet left to command. For now they were just two old, tired men, despising one another's very breath and yet unable to breathe in anything else.

Han does attempt to pull away again, though, breaking his second promise of the hour, and Zaal'Koris takes pity on him and gives him this, studying in the tiny gap how his gaze glitters with heat and a more wretched curve begins to carve itself around his mouth. He's still cradling his head steady, now with both hands, guiding his own forehead back to his as they suck in belated breaths. He doesn't remember the man's stare being so difficult to hold. It's another rare detail they share, he realizes with a somber drop to his gut when Han crushes his eyes shut and angles his head away, leaning in and licking at his jaw instead. A clever feint. Still hard to appreciate when it's not what they needed. What they...

"...wanted..." Zaal'Koris's throat catches in a way it hasn't since he was on pilgrimage. "I just wanted..."

...something that couldn't happen. A dream more distant than the homeworld. Terrain that would be impossible to navigate in a year's time or _longer_ , if either of them were fortunate to be gifted a concept so generous. Han's eyes return to his, brighter than even a Rannoch star, and they're both somehow, impossibly, horribly, thrumming in sync once more.

"What? Tell me." Impatience chafes them both, but Han adapts to it better. "You might as well, we're here now. _Tell me_."

The ache is becoming unbearable. It's been far too long, in every sense of the term, and, keelah, he's stretched to _nothing_. Zaal'Koris does a feint of his own, another kiss that's still _honest_ , and Han'Gerrel Vas Neema all but snarls at the stalemate he's given. He wrenches his mouth away, then leans forward and sinks teeth into the side of his neck instead, the crook of his shoulder, a petty revenge that will glow purple in less than a day and remind him of the moment he abandoned with every single new pulse. Zaal'Koris suffers this abuse with little dignity, _writhing_ up and down the wall as Han sucks his way around his throat in an incomplete ring.

He claws at the man's broad back, leaving shallow scratches more erratic than a circuit board's, then slides fingertips down to meet his hips, a perfect curve he appreciates generously. It's becoming too warm from where Han is still pressing him against the wall, the close room muggy from the salt leaving their bodies, but _this_ dream is finally real, and he'd have it no other way. Han sucks at the bob of his throat, nips the tender cartilage just a _shade_ too hard, then abruptly stops, moving his forearms instead to rest on either side of his head, cock pressing between stomach and hipbone. Zaal'Koris needs no further prompting and takes him in hand. Tenderly at first, appreciating the thick swell between his fingers, then more roughly when Han jerks his hips impatiently.

He tightens his fist, pulls him _hard_ , and the man all but melts.

" _Zaal._ " He breathes. Just how he used to.

It sends a white-hot spark up his spine, a flare through his very _core_ , fumbling his rhythm and making him grow even hotter with embarrassment. Han urges him forward as Zaal'Koris attempts to sync them back up again, guiding his wrist with one hand and an eager growl in the back of his throat. Time grows fuzzy. No more curses, no more dissonant chords, their coarse breath now paired with slick notes as they jerk each other faster and _faster_ , still clumsy and no longer caring. Han's forehead drops onto his bruised shoulder with a breathless moan, just south of a _whimper_ , and it's too much, too _much_. The decades bubble up without warning, so sudden he can't _think_ , and Zaal'Koris's cry sullies the clean room.

It's messy. It's transcendent. He can barely see Han between the tight shadow of his lashes and the clean room's glow, but, for a moment's moment, there's _nothing_ between them.

...Then it's over, and they're gasping like they're dying, desperately holding on as they drift back down. It's been so long since nothing passed through his mind but pure, blissful _sensation_. Since his heart fluttered like a stalling engine, or his hair clung to his skin in sloppy crescents. The admiral is a boneless weight against his chest, stomach sticky and thighs still shivering, and it's not quite uncomfortable. As if controlled by another force Zaal'Koris's hand inches up Han's slick neck and idly feels along the short, coarse hair. Han's right arm slips off the wall, too. Eases down past his shoulder, inching over and around his back to hold. To...

Now Zaal'Koris pulls away. This man, _curse him_ , grips him with both hands, with that ancestors-blasted stubbornness and raw strength both, and doesn't let him budge an inch.

"We have...we have twenty _minutes_." ...Keelah. He sounds like he's been gutshot. "Then we're done."

They could. The bed in the corner was still meticulously made, pristine with potential. So many of their dreams rested beneath those thick blankets. The years blur his vision and crumple the sheets with a blasted image of their younger selves, not quite as scarred and far more hopeful for the Fleet's future in an unwelcome galaxy, the years not having yet the chance to wear them down to spiteful rubble. For twenty minutes their legs could be tangled together and perfect. They could kiss the spite away and pretend the blows never came. They'd have to make the bed hastily to avoid any _additional_ rumors from the clean room specialists, of course, but they _could_ pretend...for just a few more minutes.

"...Do you remember when we fell asleep in the Revvi's clean room?" Han asks. Also staring at the bed with a longing light in his eyes.

He does. He remembers it so clearly it's _startling_. The silkiness of the sheets, previously crisp and untouched. The playful way Han kept toying with his hair as they floated back down from their high, annoying and somehow endearing. Unlike today it had been Zaal'Koris's idea, one that had simmered on the backburner for quite some time, and it was only when they helped shed each other's suits did they accept that this was _much_ more than just stress relief after a particularly hard week. They both hadn't realized they'd dozed off, and...

"...she'd been furious. Fiwa'Shosa, if I remember right." Zaal'Koris responds, and Han'Gerrel chuckles so hard he shakes. "We'd been assigned an hour and gone right past two. She banged and banged on the door."

"Yes...that was it. Keelah. I think she was just burned up because we made her look bad." He grins, enough that he can see his teeth, and for a moment all Zaal'Koris can think about is how much he's missed these long, long years.

The smile disappears when Han bows his head next to his ear, warm breath a future dream back in the quotidian square of his homeship bunk. His lips are starting to move against his skin, and, keelah, he _can't_ hear any more of this right now, because if he does...

Impatience decides, then and there, to right itself. Zaal'Koris shoves him back, with his _own_ considerable strength, and Han, blast it all, _still_ doesn't let go. His face glows with hurt, no, with _anguish_ , and he knows this horrible sight will glint through the dark sheen of his mask in later days. Zaal'Koris balls one hand into a fist, all too ready to leave a bruise beneath those bright eyes and share some anguish of his _own_. They could have been a team. Allies. Even a family, blast it all to the _sky_ and beyond, and Han'Gerrel Vas Neema had chosen madness instead!

The clean room's air grows cold with their anger. For one chilling moment it seems they'll lose themselves to a fight. A fight that could see them return here again in no time at all. Then Han heaves out a sigh, breaks his third promise of the day and...lets go. Turns and bares his back to him in surrender. Zaal'Koris's priority returns, like it will until the end, to his suit, and this victory is nothing more than another layer of regret.

"...Perhaps your twenty minutes would be better spent rethinking your bloodthirsty intentions for the Fleet." Zaal'Koris is a hypocrite, after he'd rebuked him on airing out his grievances in the clean room, but it's impossible to wait until they're out and on their way to their respective ships. The injustice of it all, the stretching of his last days beyond this greedy little moment, oh, ancestors, they both burn him to _ash_. "Though I can't imagine they'll hold strong against twenty years."

"Hold strong? The Flotilla has held strong _because_ of my work for the Heavy Fleet. Held strong with everything that's been thrown at us." Han never wasted much time countering him, but Zaal'Koris supposes he never had to. Not with such an _easy_ disgust. "And here you are, eager to abandon your people and run back into the geth's arms."

Zaal'Koris's hands tighten into fists, gloved again and wretchedly familiar, and he stares at his own reflection in the violet sheen of his mask for the last time for a while.

"...About as eager as _you_ are to die an honorable death."

They don't look at each other as they wipe themselves off and disinfect the scratches they left on each other's thighs. The muggy room is free of their sighs now, even their curses, replaced instead with a silence that strangles and the somehow more somber clicking of belts and shuffling of cloth. There are no well-wishings about the inevitable fever that will follow in less than twenty-four hours. No last-minute prayers. Zaal'Koris has rarely bothered to temper his words these past years and he isn't about to start now by offering Han a soft sentiment he would just dash to the ground.

Han, however, is still a man of promises. He has his last word before they both leave the clean room, and these memories, behind them.

"You goddamn _coward_."

Zaal'Koris skips the following check-up with his regular physician, which he can tell she already finds unusual by her conspicuous lack of protests. Han'Gerrel won't, he's sure of it. Bosh'tet _always_ had to stay in peak fighting condition to continue carrying on the quarian people's wrongs.

He's in a right foul mood the rest of the day, staying up late getting as much work done possible before the illness properly settles into his bones. Staring out his window brings him no calm when he finally lays his head down to rest. Not the recitation of an Old Song, nor the appreciation of the Gold Eyed constellation basket the ship is still easing its way through. Too much sits right outside his door, waiting to consume him whole the second he recovers enough to walk on his own two feet again. Maybe not even then, as his thoughts swarm in his helmet like debris, and he has little else to distract him.

Ancestors, Zaal'Koris doesn't _want_ to denounce Tali'Zorah in front of her homeship's crew, not when it meant indirectly denouncing her actions against Saren _and_ her efforts on Haestrom, but his dreams of a peaceful future and the geth have both been fighting a losing battle for a long, _long_ time. His hands have always been tied. If millions of lives could be saved, if this vision for war could be stamped out, he will happily transform himself into a manipulative, graceless authority figure. He will become her enemy, and even the enemy of many who occupy his Fleet, with pride.

"Ancestors..." It's a paltry prayer, but an honest one. "...guide me."

The next day fever dreams take their hold, as unpleasant as they are inevitable. Always the decaying matter of long-destroyed ships floating in his room like an asteroid belt, or a helmet that refuses to stay on no matter how hard he pulls, or some other vision spat out from the rattled corner of his subconscious. He's prepared his best for this long week of suffering, though, and both pain medication and water are in plentiful supply beneath his cot. Zaal'Koris continues to pray to the ancestors, as he always does when he's ill, and it's only in his less lucid moments does he allow himself to also indulge in second-thoughts about all the ways he could die here. He hopes, with a vindictiveness that could rival a vorcha, that Han is going through something similar.

The second day his fever burns. A solar fire in his suit. He tosses and turns for mindnumbing hour after _hour_ , wanting nothing more than to _claw_ off every last layer, even as his cooling system works overtime to keep his temperature stable. The second day was always harder than the first, when the illness began to reach its fever pitch to scour him clean, and this knowledge doesn't comfort him at all as he coughs and sneezes and shivers the minutes away. When Han calls him he's clearly delirious, though Zaal'Koris is hardly in any state to mock him for it. Not when he's not entirely sure he isn't imagining the call in the first place.

" _You sound terrible, Zaal'o._ " He hasn't heard that nickname in ages. Not even during their recreation in the clean room. He doesn't want to hear it again.

"Don't call me that. What do you _want_ , Han'Gerrel?" Oh, he _wishes_ the man had chosen instead to send him a message on his datapad, so he could avoid the dulcet appeal in his voice, or perhaps take this helpless frustration out on something physical. Not that he had the strength to even move out of bed. "Not an...ancestors- _damned_ moment's respite from you."

Sprawled on his cot, hotter than a red giant and headache beating mercilessly behind his eyes, he doesn't know what's worse: hearing his pet name after so many years or this long, cloying silence.

" _...Keelah._ " He hears, after far too long. " _I...I never wanted this._ " Han sneezes once, then twice, and Zaal'Koris's chest twists in ridiculous sympathy. " _I mean...to say, this...your work for the Civilian Fleet. It's a tireless effort, I shouldn't have said something like that..._ "

"I trust you've received the immunobooster upgrade?" He replies, the closest he'll come to accepting this apology, because he's sick and his mouth hasn't been listening to him, anyway. "You're supposed to take it twice."

" _Of course I have, but enough of that. There's nothing that can be done. We have no other choice, don't you see?_ " Another sneeze, followed by heavy, exhausted breaths. " _That doesn't...it doesn't **mean** I don't want to try again..._ "

Zaal'Koris closes his eyes wearily. He got his wish, but it's only another hollow victory. He'd fill the gap with something better, if he had the courage.

"...You made your choice. A long, long time ago. At least _own_ up to it. I never-" He hacks into one fist, hard, and feels a surge of anger that he couldn't even _recover_ from that blasted hour in peace. "-believed you _that_ much of...of a coward, at least-" He has more words, plenty more, but it's impossible to continue. His coughing fit turns violent, enough to double him over and make his ribs clutch like they're trying to throttle what little life is left in him.

" _Zaal..._ " An edge creeps into Han's voice, too soft for the blustering marine he knows. " _Zaal, should I call someone?_ "

"Dry throat. Nothing...nothing more." He has to cough twice more just to cut the call off properly. "Be well, Han'Gerrel."

" _I just wanted-_ "

"Good _bye!_ "

The third day is the worst, as it always is, because it's when the fever reaches its peak and the closest he comes to death. Despite this (and Han's feverish commentary) he still doesn't call for medical assistance. The urge to punish himself has transformed into an instinct, this need to keep _kicking_ himself long after he's been laid so low. How could he _not_ , when this guilt still sears through him? He could have _had_ Han'Gerrel, had an easier life in general, if only he'd abandoned the geth and his folly of peace. It's such a cruel and selfish thing, but he's more honest than most, and he's sick as a newborn, and the truth won't be denied. It ebbs and flows like a biotic field, this condemnation, and Zaal'Koris is loathe to admit he's come mask-to-mask with it more than once.

This cowardice soon reduces him to attempting to shield himself from the spirits' ever-prying eyes, and he wishes Han'Gerrel Vas Neema were here to share this misery with him.

When his fever finally breaks it's an icy relief. Zaal'Koris revels in the ability to breathe through his nose again or doze without being woken by a coughing fit. The room is mercifully clear. His dreams seem almost silly now, mind too lucid for honesty, and even the standard issue paste tastes better than it ever has in light of his hunger. He ends up devouring far far too much in too little time, and hunches into himself, temporarily sick all over again.

The agony starts to actually abate by the _fourth_ day, instead of the sixth or seventh he had predicted, and he abjectly _refuses_ to accept that some part of his body has permanently adjusted to the man's touch. His strength returns to him, in finicky little fits and starts, and it's only the (rather irritated) message sent by his regular physician that keeps him mostly confined in his room and not roaming his ship. He receives a well-wishing from Shala'Raan that he returns politely, as well as a few minor updates by his ship supervisors to keep him in the know. It's not the only message he receives the fourth day. Somehow he knows who it is even before he opens up his console alerts.

" _still alive and kicking, are we?_ " It reads, straight to the point, somehow condescending and a little worried. Just more layers to peel back if he had the time or the strength, neither of which he has much of these days, so he doesn't even bother. Even waits longer than necessary to respond back, if only to smudge his mask with it all.

" _Never cared much for your definition of living, Gerrel._ "

The man doesn't reply. Some cheap attempt at revenge for being cut off the other day, he imagines. Zaal'Koris tries and fails to sweep aside his irritation, forcing himself to lay back in his loathesome cot to gain a few more hours of gainful rest before his duties pull him again into the tide. He receives a response five hours later while he's reading about the latest updates to Daro'Xen's returned research vessels.

" _neither have I_."

Once his headache disappears the fifth day he reviews his message history and is...horrified. He can only imagine Han would confess to something as regretful as that while truly sick, but the man doesn't deign to bring it _up_ , instead sending him an e-mail later concerning a transfer request for a pair of frigates into the Heavy Fleet. Zaal'Koris wants to tell him there's still a chance for him, for them both, and there are only eleven ships standing in the way. Instead he tells him the two ships would be better off supplementing the Patrol Fleet's recent deficit and urges him to discuss his request with Shala'Raan. Not a minute passes in-between hitting send and flicking through his other priorities before Han'Gerrel responds with a remark that he's a lazy bosh'tet. Just like that, things are back to normal.

He wishes he could be happy about it.

His supervisors meet him at the docking bay for an update the fifth day, his bones still carrying their signature ache but his head mercifully (woefully) clear. Jani'Rona and Helo'Taama are chuckling among themselves over a shared datapad as he walks up, a scandalous bent to their heads he's already sighing at. They were hard-working, yes, but mischievous only as young folk could be. Much like two new admirals who were promoted as the long arm and rich heart of the Flotilla, he supposes, and Zaal'Koris keeps his admonishment softer than it would usually be as he presses them for the hundreds of details that mounted in his absence.

"Good to see you well, Admiral Koris."

"What a week, right?"

He doesn't think of the admiral's plans for the Heavy Fleet. At least, he tries not to. It's far from an easy task, with Tali'Zorah's ill-timed trial an inescapable smudge on _everyone's_ helmet. Han'Gerrel had been close to Rael'Zorah, a stalwart companion through thick and thin, right up to the disasterous and misplaced rage toward the synthetic life their people created all those many fathomless years ago. He _knows_ the admiral will be biased toward her for that alone, and her hatred of the geth will only fan the flames further. The ancestors must be roaring with laughter at Zaal'Koris now, as not a week ago he had cradled the man's head with his bare hands.

"Do you think Tali'Zorah's guilty?" Taama asks as she pulls open the new brief. If he could see her face he imagine her brow would be pinched mightily. "She has been so _good_ to the Fleet. To the entire galaxy, really, after Saren..."

"I think this is a matter for the Conclave, when it happens." Zaal'Koris responds, crisply, and she drops the issue.

It's good to return to the Civilian Fleet's duties. The rest of his crew are similarly thrilled to see him up and about, offering him quick blessings to his health or a quick wave. While this support touches him greatly (he doesn't deserve them, truly), he can already feel the weight of their future pressing firm against his back. Rona and Taama already regret seeming at odds with their duties, he can tell, and they somber up quickly as they wrap up reviewing patrolling protocol and switch to the recent outbreak on the Shedor and the Haavo. They will have no choice but to allocate the following cycle's resources toward tracking and vaccination. The origin of the disease is still an unknown, all the more nervewracking for its mystery.

"We were worried when both you and Gerrel got sick at the same time. Thought the disease somehow made its way over to the Qwib-Qwib." Rona mentions.

"I haven't been on either of these ships in quite some time..." Zaal'Koris corrects. "...but I appreciate the thought."

"Stress, then?" The young man presses, even as he already sounds assured. "A disease in of itself, that. Shaves years off your life."

"Pipe _down_ , Rona. Keelah." Taama interrupts. "Being an admiral is rough enough." She adds this with a bow of her head. Zaal'Koris acknowledges the sentiment with a nod of his own.

How right they both are.

**Author's Note:**

> "Quarians! Have! _Layers!_ "
> 
> Obligatory Shrek reference made. Speak now or forever hold your onions. 
> 
> I love Zaal'Koris. Like, top ten (or since Mass Effect is such a massive galaxy, top fifteen). This poor guy is such a pill, but can you blame him? He's got one hell of a hard job looking after the Civilian Fleet -- a job he does incredibly well, if the reactions of the quarian civilians upon his return are any indication -- and he _still_ has to deal with being part of a small, mocked minority that wants peace over war. Top that off with being labeled a coward and a suit-wetter by the other admirals for his troubles and it's no wonder he's so sour all the time. I've got a soft spot for Good Is Not Nice-type characters and he's practically the poster child.
> 
> Han'Gerrel being the quarian equivalent of a glory hound and _always_ on his case is just salt in the wound. ...So of course I'm writing feelings smut about the two. What _is_ it about tension that so easily turns into sexual tension? This can't be healthy. Still glad the third game let me punch Admiral Gerrel in the dick, though.
> 
> and for those that like music, "Heal You" by Jamal Woon ft. Courtney Bennett and "Blinded" by Emmit Fenn were **big** mood-setters for this one


End file.
